


Drifting Collisions

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of torture, Mission Fic, One Shot Collection, answered prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7763023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya buries his face in the column of her throat, holding to her while trying to find his footing. Gaby’s arms are up around his shoulders, her fingers dig into his soaking wet turtleneck, pulling at the fabric for a moment. She pulls her fingers up, tightening her grip on him before running her palm over the back of his short hair.</p>
<p>“You’re safe now, I got you…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A collection of answered prompts from a number meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #79 - It's Okay, You're Safe Now

**#79 - It's okay, you're safe now.**

 

At first he thinks, his handlers are pulling him back. He believes they’re pulling on that leash of his, dragging him back to the motherland with a choking grip, demanding he atone for all the smiles and compassion he’s found outside of their reach. Water is poured over his head, he’s drowning, unable to catch a clear breath. His lungs feel heavy, saturated with tepid water. His hands are chained, his wrists are raw and he can’t seem to find his footing. His boots slip and slide on the slick floor. He thinks for a moment that this is all KGB. That U.N.C.L.E. has failed and he’s being tested for weak points.

His weak points lie behind, in a messy hotel room. One of them is a sticky fingered American with too much charm for his own good. The other is much more complicated than words he’ll ever be able to form. She’s German born, but a British spy and a mechanic with calloused hands and a sharp mouth. She’s innocent and guilty all in one fatal stroke with dancer’s legs and a laugh that cuts him down to size. If the KGB found her, if they put hands on her, he’d lose whatever was left of that tightly wound control and shame would be the last thing on his mind. The water comes again, it pours over him, ice cold this time. He feels his lungs contract, eyes squeezing shut. He shudders, wants to scream and yet save his breath. He wants to save whatever bit of air he can so when he finds a way out, he can use it worthwhile.

His fingers tighten in their cuffs, his wrists burn as he pulls. The skin is being rubbed away, he feels the blood rushing down his arms, his shoulders sagging. He tries to move his head and someone snaps in an angry German tone, harsh letters forging together in a deep male voice. His grip tightens, anger swells, he can’t find a way to get out. He can’t find a way to unleash the rage building up in the pit of his stomach. He kicks a leg out and someone hits his knee with the heavy end of a rifle. The bone cracks and he loses the air in his lungs just as another rush of water is poured over his head.

Then just like that the water stops. A gunshot sounds and Illya tenses. All of his muscles seize up and he wonders if this is it, if this is how it ends. He holds his breath and then he hears it, that soft tone, quiet and yet – he would recognize it in a crowd of shouting people. He hears her shaking breath, fingers fumbling before she pulls the trigger twice more. Bodies hit the ground around him, even though he can’t see them, he knows they’re all dead, they’re all facing the wrath of a small British spy.

The world returns to him when she pulls the black bag off of his head. Everything is out of focus, his lashes are wet, lips parting for air and there she is. She’s standing in front of him, gun hanging from the tips of her shaking fingers, concern is etched over her face but it’s him who loses it. Illya chokes out a sob and Gaby jolts to action. She drops the gun and moves for his hands, uncuffs him. He falls and she catches but, Illya is bigger – he’s heavier than anything she can lift and her knees buckle. She threatens to fall, collapse under the weight of him but somehow manages to hold on. He sucks in a breath, loud with his lungs shaking against his rib cage but he finds himself at home. Illya buries his face in the column of her throat, holding to her while trying to find his footing. Gaby’s arms are up around his shoulders, her fingers dig into his soaking wet turtleneck, pulling at the fabric for a moment. She pulls her fingers up, tightening her grip on him before running her palm over the back of his short hair.

“You’re safe now, I got you…”

Her voice sounds a million miles away. He can still hear the gunshot loud as day over the sound of his blood rushing through his ears. He pales against her, wonders where his strength is, but he holds himself against her and closes his eyes, relishing in the feel of the safety and security she offers him.


	2. #35. Before I do this, I need you to know that I have always loved you.

**35\. “Before I do this, I need you to know that I have always loved you.”**

 

The boat rocked and swayed, then violently dipped down. Gaby’s insides twisted, making her knees wobble and her bottom lip tremble. She was much more composed on land than she was on sea. On the sea her legs were jelly and she could hardly keep her dinner down, but as they hit rougher water she felt that composure slipping. The boat dipped down again and water rushed over the deck, soaking her expensive shoes and making it harder to stand strong as Napoleon’s grip on the helm tightened and he shouted something as a beam of light cut through the dark night sky and landed on their escape boat.

Gaby barely had a moment to register the spotlight finding them when Napoleon turned the boat sharply. A fresh wave of salty water crashed over the side of the boat, knocking Gaby’s feet out from under her. She hit the wet deck and groaned, rolling onto her back just as a warm hand found her upper arm. Illya hauled her up and without question he pulled her into the crook of his arm, tucking her into his chest like he could protect her from Napoleon’s bad boating skills. The engine hummed under her knees and she buried her face in Illya’s suit jacket, he was soaked with salt water and still managed to smell like hotel soap and gunpowder. She didn’t have time to close her eyes and thank him for holding her steady, she barely had a moment to open her mouth before gunfire echoed across the ocean. The sharp sound of bullets hitting the starboard side of their stolen watercraft had Illya pulling her away from the side of the boat. He had his gun out and was firing over the metal railing into the darkness. He pulled Gaby in closer, threatening to crush her against him with brute strength alone as he fired a few rounds, the muzzle of his gun flashing with each shot. He pulled her across the slick flooring to the two seats by the helm where Napoleon was kneeling, trying to steer and avoid getting shot.

“We’re close to the docks but we have to shake Mendoza’s men first.” Solo shouts over the growl of the boat as he pushing on wards, opening the engines up and turning the wheel so hard that Gaby almost yelped as a rush of cold water splashed over the side again, this time hitting her hard, soaking her and Illya’s clothes. Illya planted an elbow onto the empty passenger seat and he fired again at the spotlight that was still shining on them, blowing their cover. They had called in an extraction nearly a half-hour ago, but getting to the point was just too risky. If they tried to make land at the docks, no doubt their mark’s men would be on them with guns drawn.

“Move us closer to the docks,” Illya shouted over the roar of the engine. Solo jerked his dark head to the side and eyed Illya for a moment, narrowing his blue gaze in a moment of confusion.

“We can’t risk that.” Solo shouted as he turned the helm once more, turning the boat temporarily out of the way of the spotlight. Gaby’s insides churned and she fought to keep herself steady. Her grip on Illya’s turtleneck was tight, knuckles turning white. She wasn’t going to get on another boat again at this rate. She made a silent vow to stick with cars as Illya pulled her up to her knees, pulling her closer to Solo as if the two of them could keep her safe as gunfire rang out over the dark sea.

“Cowboy,” Illya’s voice was sharp, his accent heavy as he sent a silent threat across the nickname for their American comrade. Solo watched him for a moment and Gaby glanced between them, wondering vaguely if they could communicate wordlessly, but her thoughts were scrambled as Napoleon sighed. He shrugged his shoulders and then turned the boat again. They took a sharp turn to the right and Gaby tumbled left. Illya pulled her up against him. The cool night air whipped at her face, the smell of saltwater was overwhelming and she tried to stand up straight using Illya for support. He moved his hand up to her upper arm, his calloused fingers brushing over the damp skin there, stroking a warm pattern across her muscle. He pushed his gun back into the holster on his hip and reached his hand over, warm fingers finding her chin. In one quick movement he pulled her up, angled her face up to meet his. In the dark she caught his gaze, it was heart stopping. His sharp features softened for her and his thumb stroked down the edge of her chin, fingers leaving behind a warm impression of him on the angle of her jaw. He was handsome in the way that made her mouth run dry and kind to her in ways that made her heart stutter around in her chest. He leaned down, too far for his own comfort. Even in her expensive heels she was small in comparison to his towering height. He still pressed downwards, the warmth of him sinking into her skin and she closed her eyes for a moment, head tilted up. This was it, all that time in Rome skirting around one another – their mission in Istanbul with two more near kisses still haunted her day dreams. The edge of his lips ghost over her own and she resists the urge to chase him for a kiss as he speaks softly to her, “I’m sorry,” It’s an apology.

Her brows knit together and her lips part and he stops her from replying with a kiss. It’s warm and quick, over too soon. She doesn’t get the chance to ask for more, to pry for another piece of affection as he moves his hands through her soaked hair. His fingers tangle there and then slip down the column of her throat to her shoulders. Her couture dress is ruined, but she knows if they make it out of this that Illya will buy her more. His hands plant on her shoulders tightly, fingers gripping for just a moment, “Before I do this, I want you to know that I –”

Gunfire erupts. Solo shouts something and instead of pulling her in, Illya shoves her overboard. Gaby’s body hits the cold water and she’s struck by a wake caused by the boat when Solo whips away, leaving her in the dark water as their mark’s men follow not far behind in their own boat. Mendoza’s men completely miss her in the water and Gaby lets out a sharp growl as she turns around in the cold water, spotting the docks not far from her. She presses onward, making herself swim the small distance to the docks. She curses with every stroke, making a silent vow to retaliate against the Russian man. Despite the cold water, she still feels the warmth of his lips on hers and that feeling doesn’t fade when she makes it to shore or when she meets the extraction team at the rendezvous point.


	3. #92. Let’s Move In Together

**#92. Let’s Move In Together**

They’re both broken and bruised. Gaby is sporting a shiner so dark that Illya is almost proud in the way she wears it. She wears it like a soldier would, unyielding with a sharp smirk twisted on her lips. She is small and feisty, but exhausted and leaning on him as they trudge their way up countless flights of steps. The lift is broken like his left arm that is tied up in a sling around his neck, he tries not to groan with every step as Gaby leans on him and his ribs twinged in protest. After a mission like this, Waverly has given them time off for recovery. Gaby offering to walk the giant home despite protests, and Illya knowing good and well that she only wants to poke around his safe-house. She only wants to sift through his things and learn his secrets while pretending to tend to him. The thought makes him smile. His lips twitch in amusement and he’s too exhausted to protest. Besides, his flat is empty and well stocked with food, ammunition, and novels from their various missions around the world. There is little in his flat that is personable, anything precious is a risk and he knows this. Which is why the woman leaning on him is such a risk, but Illya finds himself taking it every time he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Every time he lets his fingers brush hers he breathes in a hint of excitement, a rush of adrenaline – all from breaking the rules and loving her with the only thing the KGB couldn’t break.

After four flights, he nudges her in the direction to the left, letting her lead them down the hallway. The wallpaper is peeling, the building is old, but it his character and it also has a great view of the street and back alleyway. It also has a sturdy fire escape for making quick escapes. He waits for her to pass his door before he reaches out for his keys, using his good hand to undo the locks before hooking his fingers into the bend of her elbow and hauling her up to him. She moves easily, moving up to the tips of her toes, she kisses the edge of his mouth. Her lip is split and she looks feral for just a moment before he kisses her back and pulls away, not wanting to give the hallway a look into his life. Instead he pushes the door open and lets her in first. She practically dances her way in, soft footsteps, toes pressing down before she pivots, taking in as much as she can before he closes the door and locks it behind him.

Gaby spends a few minutes looking around and Illya takes to his couch, where the fabric is practically threadbare, handed down from the previous owner of the apartment. He tries not to groan but it escapes him as he stretches out, leaning his head back against the back of the couch. His blond hair is full of sweat and matted down to his forehead, blue eyes closed and his lips are pulled back in a soft hiss before Gaby moves to him. Her knuckles are split and bruising, their mission took them to into an underground ring of fighters where Illya fought and Gaby’s temper flared, they both came out much worse than their American counterpart who was now probably helping himself to an expensive bottle of scotch on U.N.C.L.E.’s dime. Gaby’s fingers are cool when she runs them through his hair and Illya leans up a bit into her touch. She cards her fingers through the golden locks and then allows her calloused fingers to brush down the edge of his temple, fingers tracing the scar next to his eye. He relaxes into her touch and she murmurs something of getting ice and leaves him there, missing her touch.

“You know I’ve been thinking,” She murmurs softly from the adjoining kitchen.

“That is dangerous.” Illya smirks at his own reply, proud of himself for coming up with the little jab that she is no doubt frowning over in the small kitchen.

“Like I was saying,” She grounds out the words, irritation breaking over her words, her voice a bit tighter now as she rummages around his icebox, pulling out a soft ice pack. Gaby comes floating back to him, shoving an ice cold object against the side of his temple in a very unforgiving way. He hisses and she smirks in triumph, “I was thinking, I could stay here and take care of you.”

He smiles softly at her words and reaches up, hand covers over her own and the ice pack, “I think you just want to be a spy in my apartment.”

She presses the ice pack tighter to his head, leaning over the back of the couch. Illya opens his eyes and she’s looking down at him, brown eyes not amused at his antics. He blows out a soft sigh and shakes his head, “Illya,” She tries and he shakes his head again.

“Nyet, there is no need for you to take care of me.” He reaches his good arm up, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek carefully, stopping at her split lip, “You need to be taken care of.”

She pulls her head back from his touch for a moment and he hooks his fingers into the collar of her expensive dress. The blue frock is practically ruined with streaks of blood running down the front of the fabric, but it’s still a beautiful shade of blue on Gaby. Illya thinks every shade is beautiful on her. She moves with his pulling as he tugs her down, but she’s protesting every inch of the way, “Says the man with the bruised ribs and broken arm, not to mention everything else I haven’t had a chance to look at.” She’s chastising him but smiling because he’s pulling her closer and closer, letting his lips ghost over hers to cease her words, but Gaby is relentless, “Let me stay and help you.”

Illya opens his mouth to retort but she kisses him and he’s lost in the feeling of her warm lips on his for just a moment. She is warm and calloused – soft and strong. She smells of gunpowder, steel, and oil. Not to mention sea salt and warm wildflowers, sunshine unfiltered he just knows she shouldn’t love him and she does. Gaby breaks the kiss, already asking again to let her stay, “Move in with me…”

“What?” Gaby pulls back a bit, brows going up, mouth opening in surprise, in shock really. He can see it written all over her face as he pulls her back down. He lets his free hand stroke the edge of her face, careful of her bruises and repeats his words.

“It would be smart move,” Gaby isn’t sure if he’s trying to convince her or himself but either way she finds herself agreeing. He keeps looking at her in that way that makes her blood run warm and she looks at him like he’s dotted the night sky just for her. Slowly the ex-mechanic nods, she keeps nodding before her broken lips split wide into a smile and she laughs out her words with him, overcome with a sense of joy.

“Let’s move in together.”


	4. #82. Looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.

**82\. “Looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.”**

Gaby’s dress is short, heels tall– taller than she would normally prefer but Napoleon had insisted and now her feet were hurting, calves straining. Illya allowed her to lean on him, her fingers brushing his with their every step as they moved from one end of the museum to the other, pretending to be newly married. Newly married and with investment money burning holes in their pockets, just begging for them to drop it in on an international art smuggling ring. 

“My shoes are filling with blood,” Gaby dramatically sighs the words, reaching her hand up and brushing her bangs aside. She hooks her free arm in Illya’s outstretched arm, he holds his elbow up just for her.

He allows her to use him for support, keeping his eyes up on the walls. He skims the corners for security cameras and then glances along the sea of people, their mark is in the center of the party. The man is going on and on about his collection, gesturing his wide hands out, fingers spread as if he could account for everything on the museum walls. Illya mutters something in his native tongue but Gaby pulls on his elbow, her ankle twisting a bit from the heels. She huffs and he catches her, holding her up steady as she reaches for a cater’s silver tray. She takes a flute of golden bubbles and throws it back without blinking. 

“Do not be dramatic. We are just here for brief entrance.” Illya watches her put the empty glass on another silver tray. She manages to get her balance back and lets go of his elbow. Her fingers slip away and he instantly misses them. They make their rounds, Gaby playing his charming wife, flashing her wedding ring around as she goes on and on about the beautiful art that’s stacked along the walls. She is bright-eyed and talented, weaving little lies here and there until she gets their mark’s attention. The man who U.N.C.L.E. believes is the leader of the smuggling ring is wrapped around Gaby’s little finger. By the end of the night they are invited to tomorrow’s dinner and they make their exit, alerting their American comrade over their coms of their return.

Napoleon quips something about Gaby’s dress through the scope of a rifle from his post and Illya terminates the communication between them by yanking out his earpiece and Gaby’s as well, pocketing them as they step out onto the London sidewalk. Gaby snickers and wobbles on her feet, her heels are pinching her toes and she tries not to make a face as she makes her way towards the hotel. Illya follows her, hand outstretched for her, he tries to take her hand but she keeps stepping out of his reach.

She’s humming softly with every step and her steps are becoming smaller and smaller. He watches her dress float along her legs then drags his gaze lower to her heels. Those absurd heels that Solo insisted she wear made her legs look endless. He cleared his throat and turned his head up and away when she glanced back at him. His cheeks burned red and she snickered softly just as thunder sounded overhead. Illya glanced up, the sky was dark, pitch black with no stars, no moon. There was another sound and then the rain started. There was no soft drizzle, it was an all out downpour. Illya reached out, gripping Gaby’s shoulders and steered her out of the path of the sidewalk. He moved her under an awning, out of the freezing rain. He unzipped his jacket and pulled her in, her legs wobbling as she buried herself there. His chin brushing the crown of her head, enveloping her up from the rest of the world, taking advantage of the rain. He let the tip of his nose graze her hair and he inhaled the scent of wildflowers and motor oil. 

Thunder sounded again and Gaby jumped at the sound, burying her face in the crook of the Russian’s neck. She exhaled softly, making his skin prickle at the sensation of her breath on his flesh, “Looks like we’ll be stuck here a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still taking numbers on this meme @tulipsohhare


	5. #50. “I need you to forgive me.”

**50\. “I need you to forgive me.”**

“It was a mistake!” Illya’s voice is strained followed by the sounds of his shoes pacing back and forth over the hotel carpet. He’s practically burning a path in the floor, eyes cast down, hands behind his back. 

“It was on purpose!” Gaby fires back and he stops pacing for a moment. 

These are the first words she’s spoken to him all night, since the incident that happened hours ago. Her hair is dry, but curling now around her shoulders. She has stolen the blanket from the bed, it’s curled around her tightly, like a cape. The good news is she is no longer blue, her fingers are warm again and her lips have returned to their soft pale pink. Napoleon still hasn’t returned, which gives Illya plenty of time to beg for forgiveness in the privacy of their room.

“It was not on purpose.” Illya grounds out the words, his jaw is tight and his hands are shaking for a moment before he stuffs them in his pockets. He stands there for a moment, watching her as she flips the page of the fashion magazine in her hand. Another moment of silence ticks by and Illya’s frown deepens. He doesn’t know how to proceed. Hours ago they were on a mission, hours ago Solo blew their cover – and hours ago, Illya pushed Gaby into thick blankets of snow, out of the way of gunfire. He had done it to protect her, despite all her training U.N.C.L.E. was putting her through, he still went out of his way to shield her from harm. Even if it meant knocking her out of the way, pushing her into the snow while Solo and himself finished the mission, speeding away in a stolen vehicle. 

“I walked back to the hotel you know.” Gaby turned another page, she held so tight to the magazine her knuckles were pale. She still didn’t look up at him as she carried on, “I looked like some abominable snow woman, no thanks to you. For a fiance, you are terrible.” 

She swung her gaze up and Illya pressed his lips together tight. After a moment he stepped forward, moving his hands out of his pockets and pressing them over the back of the couch. He shook for a moment, holding to the furniture, fighting off the urge to argue with her, to tell her walking was better than getting a bullet to the head. Illya kept her gaze and walked around the back of the couch, he pushed the coffee table out of the way and knelt down on the plush carpet. Her clothes were in a soaked pile not far from him, he could feel the wetness sinking into the fabric around his knees. A faint blush dusted the tops of his cheeks and he resisted the urge to ask what she was wearing under the stolen comforter. Instead he reached for her fingers, his own brushing along her knuckles, “I need you to forgive me.”


	6. #52. I think I'm in love with you and it scares me half to death.

**52\. “I think I’m in love with you and that scares me half to death.”**

 

Gaby’s gasp catches Illya’s attention, it comes through the communications device in his ear loud and clear. He turns the rifle in his hands, adjusting the scope as he goes. He’s across the street on another building taking point for Napoleon, but Napoleon doesn’t need him. It’s Gaby that needs him. She’s running from one set of windows to another one, computer disk in hand and her heels in the other. 

“Gaby,” Illya breathes out carefully, adjusting the weapon in his well trained fingers. When he pulls back he can see what she’s running from. There’s a man with long dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail chasing her down. There’s something sharp and silver in his hand and Gaby shouts something about needing a way out. Illya’s finger hovers over the trigger, he pulls the gun down just a small decimal but the mark is moving too fast. He won’t get a clean shot. His heart skips a beat in his chest and he turns his attention back to Gaby, “Go left.” He orders her looking a couple of windows ahead of her.

 

“I need a little bit more than just left!” Gaby shouts glancing over her shoulder for a moment, but she still manages to turn left. She throws one of her expensive heels at the man chasing her and keeps running. Her small legs are quick, but the other man is gaining on her. He’s shouting something in Bulgarian, Illya can’t quite make it out over the com in his ear but he hears Gaby hurl an insult at the man and it makes him proud. 

“Can you get to the elevators?” Illya asks as he turns the gun down a bit more, looking for an empty lift. Gaby moves around the curve of a desk, heading for the next hallway.

“I can try.” She shouts before hurling her other shoe at the man when he turns the same corner. Gaby’s hand hits the button on the elevator and the light turns on but the doors don’t open just yet. The man with the ponytail turns the blade in his hand in a quick flip, intimidating her. She doesn’t need to know if he can use it or not, “Illya shoot!” She is out of breath, desperate and the man is coming at her now. 

“I can not, I could hit you.” 

Gaby doesn’t seem to care that he has a knife because as he’s staring through the scope, he can see her charge at the man. She tosses the disk aside and grabs onto the man’s arm pulling it back. She’s so small in comparison to her attacker. Her soft grunt echoes across the static of the com and he watches as the man throws her into the wall, lunging for the disk but Gaby is not easily deterred. She pushes herself off of the wall and lunges on the man. She loops her arms around his neck and throws all her weight on to him in hopes that gravity will drag him down. Illya’s fingers tighten on the gun, he wants to pull the trigger, but Gaby is complicating his shot. If he fires, he risks the bullet striking her. His throat constricts at the idea of hurting her. He can’t do it, so his finger shakes against the side of the gun, tapping in a rhythmic sort of way that makes red bleed into his vision. Gaby rakes her nails over the man’s face and he shouts something in his native tongue before Gaby is screaming. 

The knife goes through her upper arm and red slides down to her elbow, blooming across the man’s shirt as she clings to him. Her scream makes his heart stop. Her scream is an alarming recognition that tells him he can’t save her. 

She can save herself though, he watches as she digs the knife out of her arm and manages to stick it into the man’s shoulder. It’s a mess of limbs and a static filled scream hits the communications link between them all. Gaby’s panting follows it all and she slumps down but the man twitches next to her moving to pull the knife out and she screams. Illya fires, striking the man in the neck. The bullet rips clean through and covers the wall and Gaby both in red. Her knees give out and that’s where he finds her minutes later. She’s still sitting against the wall when he gets into the building. The computer disk is forgotten, he leaves it there for later, his attention is all on the small mechanic whose heart is still racing, her fingers shaking. He pulls the vintage scarf away from her hair and ties it around her arm. 

“Why didn’t you shoot sooner?” Her voice is a whisper, her eyes finally tearing themselves away from the deadman. 

“I could have hit you, very unsafe.” Illya’s accent washes over her and she looks unhappy at his statement.

“You should have shot him sooner. You had time.” She sounds angry at him and it grates on his nerves for a moment that she’s angry at him for taking caution.

“Nyet,” Illya’s teeth are clenched now and he pulls her into him before she can protest. Her face is pressed into the warm knit of his turtleneck.

“Why?” She asks against his sweater and her voice sends a sharp pain of fear to his chest. He folds his arms around her and squeezes, squeezes until she gasps and only then does he let up a little. 

“Because I think,” He pauses for a moment, nose pressing against her soft hair. “…I think I am in love with you and that thought scares me half to death,” His voice is muffled, his lips are on the crown of her head. She sucks in a sharp breath and he finishes softly, “I do not want to lose you just yet.”


	7. #91. Can I Hold Your Hand

**#91. Can I Hold Your Hand?**

The ice has covered practically everything. It started as a mix of rain and snow flurries and now the town is covered in the hard packed ice, making everything miserable. Gaby’s lips are tinged blue and she keeps pacing across the front of the fireplace, running her fingers back and forth over her arms. Their rented cabin has poor insulation, poor heat, and thin windows. She is not meant for these conditions. Gaby is a firm believer that she is meant for the warm sands of a coastal city, not the vast wasteland that covers the Russian countryside. Illya of course, is right at home. He’s sitting on the couch in his thick cable knit sweater with a novel open in his hand. He hasn’t turned a page in nearly an hour. Or if he has, Gaby hasn’t seen it. She has hardly seen him move, but he doesn’t look near as cold as she feels.

Solo is wrapped in thick clothes and a wool blanket stolen from one of the beds. The American looks miserable, with his usual charming smile curved down into a frown and a steaming mug of tea in his hands. He nurses it like it’s an expensive cocktail. Gaby paces once more, her sock covered feet slide along the cold floors and she suppressed another shiver. She’s borrowed a pair of Illya’s socks. They’re obnoxiously large and go almost all the way to her knees. Her toes are still cold despite the gesture. So she keeps pacing to keep her blood flowing. The fire crackles and the last of the logs fall inward. They’re almost completely out of wood and Gaby wants to call Waverly just to demand their next mission land them somewhere where ice never touches.

“You are going to wear hole in floor.” Illya speaks over the edge of his novel. There’s a small puff of a cloud near his lips and she wraps her arms tighter around her middle, silently wishing she had brought thicker clothes. Her flat in East Germany was much warmer than this in the dead of winter. She had a wood burning stove that practically warmed every inch of the home and then some.

“I think he’s telling you to sit.” Solo pipes up and Gaby shoots him a glare, tempted to yank the blanket off of his thieving form and wrap it around herself.

“I’m too cold.” She finally exhales, her fingers ball up into small fists and she shivers violently as she stops in front of the dying fire. Her teeth chatter and Gaby can swear she can hear her bones rattling beneath all the layers she wears. Illya glances over the edge of his novel and she is caught in his gaze, eyes almost bluer than the winter world outside of their safehouse. He looks past her though to Solo who has his dark head down with the blanket over his head. The American’s nose is almost in his mug of tea and Illya shakes his head before marking his place on the novel. Gaby watches as he sets it aside and then opens his arms.

He sits on the couch, unmoving with his arms wide open in a sort of invitation that is unspoken. She doesn’t move and he clears his throat, fingers curling inward for just a moment. She still doesn’t move, just stands there in front of the dying flames with her fingers digging into her sleeves. She shivers and he sighs, moving to the edge of his seat. Illya’s built like a giant, long legs and long arms. Everything about him practically dwarfs her. He scoots to the edge of his seat and reaches for her, his hands start on the bend of her elbows, dragging down to her wrists where he gently holds onto her, not pulling her forward just yet. His touch is warm. She can feel the heat of him soaking into her sweater and she shivers once again from something more than the cold.

“May I?” He asks softly, voice barely above a whisper as his accent cuts into his words and his calloused thumb strokes the exposed bit of wrist where the sleeves of her sweater end. Gaby watches him silently, tilting her head to the side for a moment like she’s confused.

“What?” She breathes trying to understand his question. His fingers dip lower, pressing over her palms now. He is trembling – hesitating.

“Can he hold your hand?” Solo finally groans out the words and Illya turns a soft shade of pink along the tops of his cheeks. The Russian’s trembling ceases for a moment and then he nods.

“Can I hold your hand.”

A moment passes between them and she nods, turning her palms up and his warm fingers lace along her hands. He is so warm and inviting, she doesn’t just let him hold her hands. Instead she steps in and ends up curled against his chest along the couch, with his arms wrapped around her, novel in his hands once more. His voice is a soft rumble over the crown of her head as he translates the story to her.


	8. #65. Just Look At Me -- Breathe, Okay?

**#65. “Look at me—just breathe, okay?”**

The knife cuts through the air and steals Gaby’s breath. It slices through thin layers of gauzy couture and buries itself right in her lower stomach. The man in front of her grins menacingly, his teeth are yellow and his lips are pulled back with that smile, pink and thin – he looks like a cat out of a children’s novel. He pushes the blade in deeper and somehow all the air is stolen from her lungs. Her lips part, the air leaves her and she looks almost shocked as he pushes a hand on her shoulder, sliding his palm down her clavicle and then shoves her. Her designer heels are no match for the sudden shift in weight, she falls back and it’s nothing like the movies. It’s not graceful and it’s not painless. The mechanic hits the damp wood of the dock hard enough to knock stars into her vision. Her calloused hands move forward, like she can pull herself up but she grasps at nothing. There is heat along her abdomen and its spreading along her sides, sinking low over her hips. It’s blood, she can feel it crawling along her skin, leaking past the hilt of the knife that’s buried in her body. Gaby’s bottom lip trembles and she moves a hand down to touch the knife. The softest touch ignites fire along the wound and she finds her breath – screams. Her scream cuts through the air and gunfire erupts overhead. Their mission is compromised.

_She is compromised._

 

The sound of bullets flying over her go faint, there’s nothing but the sound of her beating heart and blood rushing through her head echoing in her ears. She can’t move, her legs twitch and there is a pain she can’t quite name that runs over her skin. The sky over her is an inky black with swirls of blue and indigo and a dotting of stars. It would be beautiful if she wasn’t laying on the cold docks with seawater seeping into her back and blood running over her belly. Her eyes flutter shut and she makes a face of distress, lips twisting down and brows furrowing. She can barely move and when she does there is nothing but pain. If she leaves the knife in she will die, if she takes it out, she could die. There are too many possibilities and she doesn’t know which road to take, her partners are somewhere else.

“Solo,” She breathes out, hoping her communication line is still open. When she gets nothing, she says his name again only this time a bit louder. “Solo!”

There are footsteps echoing over the dock now and Gaby winces, feeling the wood vibrate under her back. She wonders if the Italian smugglers are coming back to finish her off. She closes her eyes, plays dead, waiting for the com to erupt in her ear, waiting for that burst of static. There’s nothing, no charming American accent in her ear, but there is a Russian voice calling her name. Her eyes flutter open and the world spins too fast. The stars overhead are a blur but she can see Illya clear as day. His golden hair is catching moonlight, blue eyes catching the reflection of the water. He is breathtakingly handsome and it really is unfair. His face is pale and he looks worried, he has blood on him but Gaby knows it’s not his. Illya rarely gets hurt on missions. He crashes to his knees next to her before she can even say his name. His hands are in finger-less gloves and they’re hovering over her like he’s debating if he should really touch her or not. She almost laughs at the idea of him hesitating now. All it takes is a knife wound and Illya Kuryakin’s defenses tumble down and maybe now she’ll get that kiss. Maybe now they won’t dance around one another with almost-kisses and feather light touches. He leans over her, his nose inches from her own. She contemplates asking him for that kiss now as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth, back and forth making them raw and red.

“I should not have let you come,” He blames himself, the guilt is thick in his words. Gaby would shake her head, but it hurts too much.

“I wanted to,” She twists her lips into what she hopes is a reassuring smile. It was true, she had practically begged both of her partners for the opportunity to finish the mission with them, to arrest the smugglers before they took off with the priceless artifacts stolen from the Venice museum. With much pleading and a promise to stay safe, they had agreed. They had even given her a gun, but the man with the knife had knocked it aside somewhere. It was lost in the dark and she was running out of time.

“Does not mean you should have.” He reaches up now and his gloved palm presses over her cheek. His finger toy with the edges of her sweat soaked bangs and closes her eyes for a moment. He pats her cheek, urging her to open her eyes. “Gaby,” He repeats her name like a prayer, desperate for her to open those divine brown eyes. She does, looking up at him through thick lashes and he swallows hard looking over her body, eyes stopping on the knife.

“It’s pretty bad right?” She asks trying to keep her voice light but it’s hard to hold her breath in. Her throat constricts as he gently prods the edges of her wound.

“Is not deep.” He says it like he’s been stabbed before and judging by what little skin of his she has seen, there was a chance he had. She opens her mouth to talk again but there’s the burst of static in her ear and Napoleon’s voice fills their coms.

“I’m on my way with the kit.”

Gaby swallows hard and Illya looks back at her, he strokes the side of her face again and she wants to close her eyes and revel in the calloused feel of him. He doesn’t let her though. His fingers slip down the edge of her cheek and he curls his fingers along the back of her neck, tangling them in her hair gently as he leans over her, “Keep your eyes open,” He orders her in that thick Russian accent of his and she parts her lips to retort but then his mouth barely brushes hers and all words are lost. He watches her as his lips touch hers and she stares right back at him, worried now that this wound is the end and she will never get another kiss again.

Footsteps echo on the dock and Solo rides in like an American cowboy to save the day, white kit in hand as he kneels on the other side of her. Illya pulls away from her abruptly. No one says anything about the kiss. Instead Illya orders Solo to pull out all the gauze and the quick-blot package to help staunch the bleeding. Gaby has no idea what they say next because her lips are still warm, still tingling. It isn’t until Illya is leaning over her again that she blinks back to reality.

“What?” Gaby questions, licking over her bottom lip, wincing in pain.

“Gaby, I need you to look at me.” His warm palm is back at her cheek, his calloused thumb brushes over her bottom lip slowly as if memorizing the plush feel of her mouth. She must look confused because he leans over her again, his other hand finding hers and squeezing her fingers, warming her up. “Look at me – Just breathe, okay?” 

She doesn’t have time to answer. He holds her hand and Solo pulls out the knife. Her scream cuts through the night and echoes off the sea.


	9. #94. I bet I can make you scream my name.

**94\. I bet I can make you scream my name**

Gaby would make a joke, but right now she can’t seem to find the words. Illya’s hand is warm, calloused, and running up the edge of her dress. Her voice is lost somewhere in her throat and she feels her bangs sticking to her forehead with sweat as adrenaline runs rampant across her nerves. His palm slips higher, her breath hitches and with careful aim she lifts her right hand over his head and extends her fingers out in a gun-like stance pointing it at Napoleon with a sharp look. The two of them are in a nightclub, scoping out all the nooks and crannies while Solo lurks behind, watching the show they give on.

Gaby’s other hand wraps around Illya’s shoulders and slips up to the short hair at the back of his neck where her nails graze along the base of his scalp. 

“Do you see him?” Illya’s voice is low and even with the music pulsing overhead, she can hear him loud and clear. His lips graze the front of her dress and she presses her knees closer over him, digging them into the couch for VIP guests of the corrupt owner who is currently forging millions of fake currency and distributing them freely.

“I do,” She acknowledges him, turning her head down and lowering her thick lashes. Illya swallows hard and his fingers tighten over her upper thigh under her dress. Her skin pricks with excitement and she barely catches her breath before Illya smirks, catching on to his actions and her reactions. So he lets his hand drift higher and she visibly swallows. 

“How much time do we have?” Solo asks in the communication pieces in each of their ears. Gaby glances down at Illya, at his hand vanishing beneath her short black skirt and back up again in to the darkness of the night club, the neon lights cast a vivid glow about the room but it’s still darker than the night sky outside. 

“Ten minutes max,” Illya murmurs and Gaby nods as the corrupt owner makes his rounds behind the bar, counting out the crumpled bills in the tip-jar. Illya watches the owner, Gaby watches Solo slink around like a cat, all loose muscles and sharp blue eyes as he vanishes room to room, picking locks and gathering intel. 

“What could we do in ten minutes?” Gaby muses softly, now winding her fingers up into Illya’s golden locks. She tugs on his hair, turning his head up and his grip on her tightens. The music pulses louder as the beat picks up, Illya loses sight of the mark but he can’t seem to care. He’s lost in her dark eyes, drowning in them as she slowly lowers herself into his lap, taking in his crisp suit and clean shaven jaw. 

“That is what Cowboy calls, a loaded question.” Illya’s lips tick up into a slight smirk as his fingers linger along the strips of her garter belt but something stops him. His cheeks turn a soft red and he is a gentleman in sliding his palm lower, keeping distance now as she raises a slight brow to him. When she looks up she can see they’ve drawn attention to themselves now. What was a good cover now has an audience and Gaby fights off a blush as Illya turns his head down, hiding himself in the space between them.

Her fingers twist in his hair and she leans down, lips skimming the crown of his head just before she whispers, “I bet I could make you scream my name in less than ten minutes.” 

Napoleon crackles over the com, “Now that is entertainment.” Illya curses and Gaby throws her head back in a sharp laugh. They’re mission goes on without a hitch and on their way out, Gaby is a little too drunk and slips her hand in Illya’s own, laces her fingers with his and leans on him until they’re back at the hotel room where he deposits her in bed and waits before taking up residency on her couch, not wanting to return to his own hotel room.


	10. #65. I wish you could see yourself how I see you

**#65. I wish you could see yourself how I see you.**

He is jagged edges and shrapnel. He can be devastating to her if he lets himself come undone. He thinks about it a thousand times a day, even more when her calloused fingers wrap around his wrist over his father’s watch. The faint ticking noise echoes in his ears and he falls victim to her dark eyes, endless and deep.

“Gaby,” His voice wavers as uncertainty floods his system. His nerves are on end and he draws in a sharp breath when she pulls on his wrist hard. The small mechanic is deceptively strong – or maybe just for her, he is weak willed and easily pliable. If his handlers could see him now. All the shame they would curse him with, the once formidable KGB agent is reduced to nothing but ashes as she plays with the leather band of his legacy.

“Illya…” It’s a low sound, tainted with something dangerous as she flirts with the idea of drawing him in and taking control. His mission is a downward spiral, they’re on the edge of something dangerous with blown covers and the taste of blood on their lips. He steps forward, moves with her pulling. He is a man of honor and pride for a country that doesn’t care if he lives or dies, but Gaby does. She cares. She’ll miss him when the handlers pull on his leash and drag him kicking and screaming back behind the Iron Curtain. Gaby’s hand climbs higher, her fingers brush the exposed strip of skin just before his elbow where his shirt is bunched. Each stroke of her fingers shortens his breath. She glances up at him through thick lashes, painted lips curving up into a devilish smirk, “I wish you could see this.”

Illya swallows hard, he’s unnerved, unraveling in the palm of her calloused hands, “See what?” His voice breaks and she takes one long last look at him before they go into enemy territory with guns blazing, “I wish you could see yourself how I see you.”

“Red?” He asks hand sweeping hers aside as he goes for his gun. 

Gaby shakes her head and pulls the safety on her own weapon, “Golden.”


	11. #62. It’s only one night, we will just share the bed

**#62. “It’s only one night, we will just share the bed.”**

Anger floods Gaby’s system. She is furious with Waverly and not only him, but her partners as well. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is disheveled from constantly raking her short nails back and forth over her scalp. Of all the missions in their world, they have to send her back to Berlin. She’s forced to return to the other side of the wall where anxiety eats away at her insides. She asked, begged – even pleaded with Waverly not to send her back, but here she stood in the doorway of an old hotel, soaking in the ugly wallpaper and musty scent of damp wood and mothballs. East Berlin is just as ugly as she remembers. Six months has done little to change how she feels. She had made a promise in Rome to never return – and here she was.

Her anger must be tangible because Illya doesn’t even touch her when he sweeps into the room. He side steps heavily around her and drags their suitcases in. They’re ‘married’ again. His ring is set snug on her left hand and he exhales when she slams the door to the hotel room shut so hard that the walls rattle. 

“Gaby,” He starts softly, his accent is heavy here and she closes her eyes because this is where they first met, where he chased her down and tried to keep her behind the wall. Her stomach lurches and she shakes her head to him.

“No Illya.” She tells him quietly and steps away from him and takes in their drab hotel. They’re supposed to be behind the wall for a week, looking for clues to the disappearance of a scientist. Intelligence tells Waverly he was last seen in East Berlin and so that’s where they’ve been sent with Solo across the street, in his own hotel room. Gaby scowls and takes in the boring decor shuffling along in the dead of night, exhausted from traveling. Fatigue sinks into her bones and she makes her way to the bedroom, flipping on the light only to curse softly.The mechanic leans against the door and thumps her forehead once, twice– three times before Illya’s chest brushes against her back. He leans in the doorway, golden hair swept across his forehead.

“What is it?” He asks softly, the ever perfect soldier scanning the room for a threat, hand itching for a gun in the holster on his belt.“There’s only one bed.”

Gaby groans and toes off her heels. Her feet ache and she shuffles along the floor, looking around for a second bed that is nowhere to be found in the tiny suite. Illya watches her distress, she has every right to be angry. She had promised him months ago in Rome that she would never return, but now she was nothing more than a spy, much like him – following orders for the sake of the job. .He decides to not let her anger win. Instead he sets their luggage down and sheds his jacket, hanging it up in the closet. 

“It will be okay.” “Illya, it’s not okay.”

She grounds out the words and turns to face them, her hands forming fists at him. She’s angry and tired, frustration bleeds into her words and he shakes his head, waving a hand at the small bed.

“Is only for one night, we can share the bed.” 

Her stomach twists and then the tension slowly fades from her. He watches her shoulders sag and then a moment later she sits on the end of the bed, head in her hands. Illya stows their luggage and like a good spy, sweeps the rest of the suite. When he makes his way back to the room, she’s already asleep, turned on her side and fully dressed, taking up entirely way too much room. He shakes his head and joins her.


End file.
